


Den

by mtothedestiel



Series: Bower 'verse [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alpha Quentin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Body Worship, Bonding, Comeplay, Courtship, Domestic Architecture, Domestic Fluff, Eliot's thesis, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fatherhood, Fluff and Smut, Graduation, Home, M/M, Magic, Male Lactation, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Nesting, Nipple Play, Omega Eliot, Omega Verse, Power Dynamics, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Season/Series 01, Service Top, Sex Magic, Tenderness, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: This is a story about surprises, magical architecture, and soft, beautiful things.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Bower 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025104
Comments: 109
Kudos: 188





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is going to come as it comes, but i'm vibing with Omega Eliot for a while longer it seems. I still plan to keep things light and sweet, so no fears regarding anything besides the slightest angst just for depth of flavor. All of your comments have been incredibly inspiring, so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> This first chapter is a kind of prologue. The main events of our story will take place in the present, about a year after the events of _Bower_.

As a child, Eliot is not allowed to have a nest. He doesn’t properly know what a nest _is_ , outside of movies and television, and the sad, plain extra quilt his mother is permitted in his parent’s room when her own heats draw near. 

There were a lot of things Eliot isn’t allowed, and all of them seem to do with being an Omega. He isn’t supposed to scent, or make the sounds that seem to bubble up in his chest when he’s happy or sad or scared. Instincts are a thing that Alphas have. They can’t control it—apparently—and so Omegas have to always be in control. Eliot—he learns in church, in school, at Walmart when his mother turns her nose up at an Omega affectionately scenting a toddler in his arms—is meant to rise above his animal instincts. To fail to do so would make him a bad Omega, wanton and base, a creature of impulse and sin. 

Eliot is nine years old when he first hears a version of that sentiment. Things don’t improve. For almost ten years he sleeps in a cold, flat bed and wears the modest clothes his mother thinks are appropriate. He endures his first handful of heats locked in his room with a scent blocker on the door, curled up under his hospital corner sheets and thin quilt. He feels wrong and empty and alone. 

Eliot’s instincts are strong. That and his height and his _willfulness_ make for a miserable Omega in his particular portion of Indiana. Also did he mention he’s telekinetic? When it rains it pours. 

Eliot runs away the day before he turns eighteen. He has three days worth of clothes and three years worth of baby-sitting money. It’s now or never. 

(“I’ll have a word with the pastor and see about the right Alpha for him,” his father rumbles while Eliot hides at the top of the stairs. “A few pups will settle him down.”

Eliot’s mother says nothing. Eliot steps lightly down the hall to his room and starts packing.)

The bus to New York is full of sounds and scents, and it takes Eliot about five minutes to realize his family and their church are full of shit. The first thing he’s going to do when he gets to the big city is figure this Omega stuff out. He spends the rest of the long journey on Craigslist. 

(Eliot doesn’t know that there’s magician Craigslist, and this he doesn’t realize that the ad he stumbles onto for “All Omega house looking for quiet roommate for small but affordable extra bedroom” is invisible to muggles. Something about it just seems friendly to him, like a squishy crocheted afghan.) 

A nice thirty-something Omega named April(who Eliot will later learn is a pretty respectable hedge witch) shows him to his room, which is basically a pantry with a window off the kitchen. 

“It’s not much,” April says as Eliot pays for his first month in cash. “But the door locks, and we’re all Omegas, so no one will fuck with you.”

“It’s perfect,” Eliot promises. 

“Also if the landlord ever comes by, you’re my cousin visiting for the weekend. He’ll believe you.” April winks as she says this, like they’re both in on a joke. Eliot just smiles back and nods, determined not to look too much like a yokel. He is now the proud lessee of his own bedroom and a whole twin sized bed. (It’s kind of an odd bed. There’s a seam down the middle of the mattress, and what looks like a couple of extra pieces to the aluminum frame that Eliot can’t parse. He chalks it up to flat pack weirdness and figures he’ll work it out later.)

Eliot’s roommates don’t pay him much attention, but they seem nice. They all smell good, too, warm friendly Omega scents that help Eliot relax in the overwhelming scents and sounds of the city. He spends most of his first week in Manhattan in the apartment, working on his resume (it’s pretty thin) and looking for jobs on an old laptop that Danny lets him use when he doesn’t need both his monitors for his Fuzzbeat gigs. Eliot settles in, and soon the house gets accustomed to the sight of Eliot on the second hand couch in the main room, the sound of the fan strangely comforting as he navigates Windows 7. 

There’s a pillow that Eliot really loves, in their matchbox of a living room. There’s nothing special about it, it probably came from Target or IKEA, but it’s very soft, and it has a kind of quilted embroidery across the front that feels good to run his hands over. He tucks it beside him on the couch while he works, or dozes with it under his head while he waits the interminable hours until he hears a reply on his applications. 

Eliot is holding it on his lap, stroking the silky texture of it while he watches a YouTube video about effective cover letters when April’s keys jingle in the door. She’s always going to meetings of some kind and comes home smelling like incense and smoke. 

“If you need that for your bower, you can have it.” 

Eliot jumps, holding the cushion tight in his arms. April looks amused as she kicks off her boots. “What?” 

“Instincts, huh?” She says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s okay. We’ve all stolen a pillow or two. It’s a compliment, really, since it probably smells like all of us.”

Eliot thinks this might be an Omega thing he wasn’t allowed. Here’s his chance. “What’s a bower?” 

“I mean your nest, honey.” April’s brow furrows a little. “Where are you from, again?” 

“You have a nest?” Eliot asks, too eager. Revealing too much of himself. “Can I see it?”

Eliot follows April into her room like he’s going to church (but, like, a _good_ church). The air feels sacred. The light is dim and warm. Most of the room is taken up by a bowl shaped padded mattress, draped in all bright shades of calico quilts. Knit blankets and sweaters are woven around fluffy pillows on the edges. Above the bed, a small window is covered in hanging crystals and stained glass sun catchers. They throw soft halos of color on the bedspreads and the walls. 

Eliot sighs, and it’s pure longing.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” 

April rubs the back of her neck, but her scent goes warm and pleased. 

“Here.” 

From the twinkling constellation above her bower, April plucks a crystal free on its long string and offers it to him. 

“For _your_ nest.” 

Eliot takes the crystal, greedy for any small piece of this beautiful home that April has made for herself. “I don’t have a nest,” he admits. “I’ve never had one.” 

April looks at him like she expected that answer, and that it’s possibly the saddest thing she’s ever heard. 

“Would you like one?”

Bed Bath and Beyond has an entire aisle just devoted to nesting supplies. It’s tucked between the shower curtain options and the bed frames like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Eliot would be pissed if he wasn’t so overwhelmed.

“This is an investment. For you.” April nudges him toward a long rack of nesting blankets. “Choose one that feels right.” 

Eliot wants them all. He thinks he’ll never be able to choose one, each plush throw more decadent than the last, and all of them forbidden until right now. But last on the rack, Eliot’s touch leads him to his prize.

It’s royal purple, and so soft. Clean fluffy Sherpa on the underside. Eliot strokes his fingers over the material and something inside him curls up and purrs. _This is for us_. 

“Good choice.” April grins at Eliot with his arms full of the Queen sized blanket. Eliot is almost giddy at the register. He forgets to be anxious about more of his precious dollars spent. Behind him, April adds three simple bed pillows and a set of dark gray cotton sheets. 

“Danny and Elena pitched in,” she says as she hands him the full shopping bag after. “Call it a housewarming gift.” 

Eliot lays out his treasures back at the apartment as April shows him how to convert the twin bed into a shallow, oblong kind of dish shape. (That’s what the seam in the middle is for! There’s a third section underneath, like the leaf in his grandmother’s dinner table.) 

“You can switch it back and forth if you want,” April tells him. “Elena only likes a nest now and then, but I like to keep mine up. Feels nicer.” 

Eliot doubts he’ll ever sleep on a regular bed again, but he just watches as April fluffs out his new sheets and takes the plastic off his pillows. 

“It’s just a start, but you can arrange the pillows a little, here—“ 

April is acting, well, maternal. Eliot gets the impression that this is something he should have had explained to him as a child. But he watches her move his scant collection of pillows to the edges of the padded frame and spread out his blanket with something like wonder. It looks so...comfortable. Safe. Good. ...almost.

“That doesn’t go there.” 

Eliot jumps at the sound of his own voice. April looks surprised as well, but she pulls the pillow—the special, stolen living room pillow—out of the corner where she’s set it and offers it to him instead.

“Why don’t you show me, then?” 

With that, Eliot builds his first bower. That night he lies down to sleep in a soft-walled space that’s warm and secure and only smells like him. Curled up under his new plush throw, Eliot scents and chuffs, the constant jangle of instinctual _lack_ quieted down to almost nothing. He’s so happy he almost doesn’t realize he’s begun to cry, like releasing pressure on a valve. Fat tears drip down Eliot’s cheeks unchecked, half from sheer relief and half out of grief for himself, that he spent so long denied something so harmless and natural. 

In the morning, Eliot takes the crystal April gave him from her own nest and tacks it up so it dangles overhead. It shimmers and sparkles in the morning light, throwing rainbows over his new nest—his _bower_ , Eliot likes that word, he thinks—and that feels right, too. 

_This is a beautiful, soft thing,_ Eliot thinks, throat a little tight but maybe the most whole he’s ever felt. 

_This is good and allowed._

I _am good and allowed._

With that thought Eliot begins to rebuild himself, the way nature intended, and it’s a beautiful thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back in the present! As I said before, Den takes place about a year after Bower. I can't wait to hear what you think! Comments will be placed under glass and admired in a temperature controlled environment for maximum conservation.

Eliot’s been feeling a little off since his last heat. The closest thing he can compare it to is agoraphobia. Anytime he’s out of his bower (or away from Quentin) he’s cold and anxious. He wants to feel _enclosed_ , surrounded by soft surfaces in a dark warm space, preferably with Quentin on top of him. And, yes, a part of him always wants to feel like that, hence having a nest in the first place, but he’s taking it to new extremes. Being out of his room, even just downstairs, seems to sap his energy, keeping him on edge in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a child. 

On top of that he’s starving. _All the time_. 

The first two weeks Eliot chalks it up to post heat fallout. Returning to the cold cruel world after four halcyon days of getting absolutely railed by his sweet, snuggly little Alpha is always an adjustment. At six weeks, Eliot can tell that even Quentin—whose capacity for Eliot’s primal displays of affection is nearly infinite—is starting to notice his weirdness. Margo has been giving Eliot the side eye for almost a month. 

It comes to a head at the end of January. Eliot has skipped his evening seminar—it’s _outside,_ where there are _other people_ and _cold weather_ —in favor of draping himself over Quentin for a catnap in the common room. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s exhausted at the drop of a hat lately, and if he’s asleep on top of Quentin then no one can come and lure him away while Eliot isn’t on his guard. 

Which is, in retrospect, absolutely batshit insane, but Eliot just isn’t thinking clearly lately. Case in point:

Eliot rouses to the scent of a strange Omega approaching Quentin from the other side of the couch and his chest seizes with panic. _Encroaching on us! On our mate! Our territory!!_

Eliot tugs Quentin against his chest and snarls before he’s even fully awake. It’s not a sound he’s ever made. To be honest, he startles himself a little, and he definitely startles Quentin, who goes stiff and shocked in his arms.

“Eliot, _jesus_ , it’s only—” 

The “strange Omega’s” scent settles against Eliot’s senses, and the bottom drops out of his stomach. 

“Bambi?”

Eliot lets Quentin go and scrambles off the couch. He—holy shit—he just snarled at Margo. He _postured_ , like she was a threat and not _his Bambi_. 

“El, honey.” Margo doesn’t look pissed, dropping her coat since she’s just gotten back from the class Eliot skipped. She looks hurt...and worried? “What the fuck?” 

Eliot needs to cling, and so he does, pulling Margo into his arms and scenting her frantically. “I’m sorry. I have no clue what the fuck is happening to me.” 

Eliot’s voice is rough, like he’s about to _cry_ , and that’s equally terrifying. He feels helpless and jittery and still so _so_ territorial, like the next person who walks into the common room is going to get their eyes clawed out.

“I know you’re all natural Omega and shit,” Margo says while Eliot snuffles into her hair, petting the long silky tresses. “But things are getting a little over the top, even for you.” 

“I know.” Margo’s hair is so soft. “I’ve been crazy.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Quentin asks from the couch. “If you’re sick it might put you on edge.” 

“I don’t know. I’m just in preheat mode all the time, like everything’s a threat. And I’m always _starving_ and exhausted—“

Eliot freezes. He’s tired. Hungry. Territorial. His heat was...six weeks ago. He looks down to find Margo looking back, her lips a thin line. 

Oh shit.

“What?” Quentin smells anxious now, wringing his hands. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Eliot’s urge for comfort wars with his need to scent Bambi, and he ends up with Margo in one arm and Quentin’s fingers wound tight in his other hand. 

“Maybe nothing.” Eliot gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I should go talk to Lipson. Just in case.” 

“I’ll walk with you. Let me get your coat.” Given the opportunity to provide Quentin jumps, which fills Eliot with all kinds of squirmy satisfaction despite his trepidation. 

“I’m sure it’s just thesis stress,” he tries to convince himself as he switches scarves with Quentin so that they’ll smell like each other when they leave the Cottage. “Some weird psychosomatic hormone bullshit.” 

“Right.” Margo doesn’t look convinced, and Quentin just looks worried. “I’m sure that’s all it is.”

* * *

“Nothing psychosomatic about it,” Lipson announces after fixing a lens on Eliot for about two seconds. “You are definitely pregnant.” 

Eliot looks down where Lipson is scrutinizing him. “Oh shit.” 

“Yup. Congrats.” Lipson slides her lens back into its case. “Or not. Depending.” 

Depending. Fuck. 

“That probably clears some things up, at least. I imagine your instincts have been kicking your ass.” 

“I thought I was losing my mind.” 

“Hormones will do that to you. They’ll settle down, one way or the other.”

Eliot nods, feeling a little bereft. He _likes_ his instincts. Up til now he’s always been able to trust them, but he looks down at his own stomach—flat, of course, he can’t imagine anything else—and he’s nothing but a jangle of shock twisted through with a feral impulse to tear the throat out of anyone who so much as moves too quickly in his vicinity. 

It’s confusing, to say the least.

Lipson sighs and sits. Eliot’s always appreciated her bedside manner, or lack thereof. He must look particularly lost to earn even a sliver of sympathy. 

“I’m not going to bore you with pamphlets.” Her scent warms, an attempt at comfort. “You have options, and no one can make a decision but you.” Her lips slant. “Now matter how many people you have pacing in the waiting room.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The waiting room is quite a scene. Bambi is sitting proper as she only does when she is really worried, flipping through a magazine like a chic ice sculpture. Quentin—bless his little Alpha heart—Quentin is as close as he ever gets to prowling, pacing back and forth across the hardwood with Eliot’s scarf clutched to his chest for comfort. They both look up when Eliot clears his throat. 

“Well. I’m not sick,” he announces with as much aplomb as he can muster. “I’m at six weeks.” 

“El—“ 

“You’re—“ 

“Pregnant,” Eliot confirms.

Margo looks vindicated. Quentin looks like he might pass out. Eliot inhales, and the sterile infirmary air burns his lungs. The fluorescent lights are harsh on his eyes. It’s wrong wrong _wrong_.

“Can we go home?” He asks, near tears again as everything sets in and his instincts flare. “I want to be in our nest.” 

Eliot’s hands are shaking a little. Quentin takes one and Margo takes the other. 

“Let’s go.” 

* * *

“If there’s any reason Quentin needs his balls cut off in the next hour, I’m right across the hall.” 

Eliot laughs in spite of himself, hugging Margo tight. “Thanks, Bambi.”

Then it’s just Eliot and Quentin in the bower. This could be a hard conversation, so they wear soft things. Eliot is in his favorite silk robe, Quentin in a loose t-shirt and his boxers. They sit, face to face, the unknown future and their joined hands held between them. 

“The way I see it, we have four options.”

Quentin is listening very carefully. 

“They depend on what I want to do and what you want to do,” Eliot says.

“Okay.” 

Eliot wets his lips. 

“Category one is I don’t have the baby.” Options, Lipson had said. Those are options Eliot never would have had in Indiana. “Then you decide if you still want to be with me based on that decision.” 

Quentin squeezes his hands tightly, but says nothing. 

“Category two: I keep the pup,” Eliot continues, nerves like a live thing in his belly. Well, one of two live things. “And then we figure out if I’m going to do that alone—“ Eliot swallows. “Or if I’ll be starting a family with my mate.” 

Quentin is absolutely still, like the vibration of his anxiety is so high that it is no longer detectable to the human eye. Eliot doesn’t know what answer he’s hoping for, or if either of them are even really capable of making this decision in their state of shock, but Eliot knows what he wants right now, more than anything in the world. 

“If it’s up to me,” he says, the tremble in his voice betraying his desire. “I would really like to go for that last option.” 

Quentin exhales, and it’s like a small explosion as all the tension tumbles out of him _._ “Oh, thank _fuck.”_

The nerves in Eliot’s belly evaporate like they were never even there. He can feel the relief flood his bloodstream. 

“Oh my god, Eliot— _jesus_. I want that too. I want that _so much_ —I can’t even—“ 

Quentin’s next breath is shuddering, and Eliot’s feeling a little teary himself, all his insides scooped out and replaced with this new beautiful thing.

“Oh Q. My little alpha, come here.” 

Serious talk over. Naked instinct time is now. 

“I know that this is, like, the biggest life decision ever, and there will be logistics to figure out,” Eliot says as he strips Quentin down and installs him under the covers with Eliot where he belongs. “But I think I need to be feral and horny about this right now.” 

Quentin roots into the softness of the bower, bringing him impossibly closer. “El,” he says seriously. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to be horny about this for the rest of my life.” 

Eliot preens. “Yeah?” 

“You’re pregnant with a pup we made together, and you’re going to carry them around for nine months so, uh, yeah.” Quentin laughs through his tears. “Consider me feral.” 

Eliot purrs, warm and possessive, and darts his tongue out to lick the wetness from Quentin’s cheeks. 

“Good.” Eliot wiggles until Quentin turns on his side so he’s basically on top of him. Quentin’s weight presses down on him and that’s the good stuff right there. 

“Mm, Alpha.” A serene, primal kind of arousal is flooding Eliot’s senses. “Are you going to protect our nest? Gonna keep us safe?” 

Quentin growls, and slick wets Eliot’s thighs. Oh fuck. 

“ _Mate_.” 

Oh _fuck._ They’re going to— _f_ _uck yes._ Eliot’s brain is now on a single track, and that is getting Quentin’s teeth in his throat. 

“Fuck, baby, knot me. Knot me so good, and then the bite. I need it—need you so bad—gonna make you my mate. Nobody else—“ 

Quentin doesn’t need telling twice. Eliot is on his belly and mounted in a breath, and fuck it’s so good. 

“We made a pup.” Quentin punches the breath out of him with every hard deep thrust. “There’s a fucking _baby_ in you that _we made_.” 

Eliot can’t form words, only sound. His whines and grunts and mewls are nothing but a soundtrack to the _mate mate mate_ playing on a drumbeat loop in his brain. 

He has a pup. He has his bower. He has a strong, submissive little Alpha fucking his absolute brains out. 

Eliot may have just reached nirvana. There’s only one thing missing. Eliot gets a grip on Quentin’s hair, and tugs until he can bully him into his back. It pains him not to be covered but height difference is about to become an issue and Eliot isn’t waiting one fucking second longer for that bite than he has too. Quentin whines and struggles until Eliot sinks back onto his cock and pulls Quentin up to a sit. 

“Come here, Alpha. I’ve got you.” 

Eliot feels like a benevolent god as he guides Quentin’s mouth to his throat. His alpha gasps, his blunt nails biting into Eliot’s back.

“Shh, Q. Just do what feels natural.” 

Quentin whimpers, his whole frame trembling with desire. “El…” 

“I know, sweetheart. I want it. I’m ready.” 

The moment stretches like a drop of honey from a spoon as Quentin snuffles into his throat, instinct guiding him to the point where Eliot’s scent is the strongest. Then, just as Eliot exhales, Quentin bites down. Hard.

The knot pops. Quentin’s teeth break skin. Eliot comes with a shattered yelp. 

He’s claimed. He's fucking claimed and--hnng-- _bred_. God, Eliot has stumbled down some of the right paths in life for that to be something he's able to be happy about. Not just happy. Ecstatic. Over the fucking moon. 

Eliot goes lax over Quentin’s sturdy, compact frame as his mate manages to unlock his jaw. He laps up the seeping blood, the natural enzymes in his saliva encouraging the bite to partially heal. 

It’s going to scar beautifully. Right over his scent gland. 

Eliot feels a high like no drug has ever given him in his life. Bonding pheromones are a kick and a half. Still knotted, he bundles them both down into the bedding, tugging his first and most well loved plush throw over their heads. It’s dim. Warm. Secret. A safe place for them. Eliot finds the corner of Quentin’s mouth in the near dark and places a kiss there. It’s a little prickly against his mouth, and that’s good and right. 

“You put a pup in me.” 

Quentin has stars in his eyes. “Mate.”

“That’s right.” 

“Yours now.” 

That is an actual, sexual thrill. “Yes, you are.” 

“Our den. Our pup.” 

Eliot closes his eyes just to savor the words. “ _Yes_.” 

Eliot falls asleep with his mate in his arms, in the absolute safety of his bower. For the first time in weeks he feels at peace. Centered. Ready.

He’s going to make something beautiful. 

He can do this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, beautiful people. I hope you're all enjoying some delicious leftovers and ready for some fluffy, fluffy, fluff. Comments will be reheated in tinfoil for a week's worth of nourishment. Enjoy!

Quentin wakes up to a different world than the one he was living in yesterday. The morning sun filters through Eliot’s layered canopies, filling the nest with dappled golden light. Everything is warm. Everything is new. Everything is Eliot and Quentin and _their_ _pup_. 

The secret alpha fantasy box has been blasted to smithereens, needless to say. 

Outside, the birds are singing, and inside, Eliot is purring. Quentin can feel the rumble of it where he’s pressed back to chest against him. Eliot’s purr is the most beautiful sound in the world, probably. More than a sound, it’s a feeling, a whole ambiance. The best sensory experience Quentin can think of and paired with Eliot’s _happy safe sated_ scent, which it usually is, it may as well be paradise. Eliot is so happy it has to rumble out of him into the universe, and he lets Quentin be a part of it. 

Quentin’s happiness manifests in a full body wriggle as he rolls over to admire his mate. The movement must jostle Eliot a little, because his eyelids flutter open. 

“Hi, handsome.” 

“Hi.” Quentin can’t help the giddy smile stretching his lips. “Either I just had the most amazing dream, or I bit you last night.” 

Eliot tips his face into their pillow, blushing. Pleased. 

“Can I see?” 

Never one to decline being admired (Quentin loves him. He loves him _so much_ ), Eliot peels back the covers and rolls onto his back, tilting his chin so that Quentin can see his throat and the fresh mating mark he left there yesterday. Quentin rests his chin on Eliot’s chest, one hand coming to rest low on Eliot’s belly (where their pup is! Their pup is in there!) and sighs happily.

“It’s so pretty.” That’s probably a dumb thing to say, but it is. A perfect crescent, the skin raised pink over Eliot’s scent gland. Proof that Eliot plans on keeping Quentin around. Forever. “You’re pretty. The prettiest.” 

Eliot smiles, a little, petting over the hair on Quentin’s arm absently while Quentin nuzzles the mark.

“I might look ridiculous, soon.” It’s a bit of a non sequitur, to say the least. 

“Pregnant,” Eliot clarifies, when Quentin just stares at him without comprehension. “My mother always said—I’m too tall, I mean. I’m sure I’ll look ridiculous.” 

Eliot is saying words in an order that should make sense according to the rules of the English language, but they don’t. 

“Eliot, the idea of you visibly pregnant is so arousing to me I’m genuinely worried I might have a stroke when I get to see it in person.” 

It’s literally never occurred to Quentin that this might be an issue. Eliot puts forward such a seamless image—perfect man, perfect magician, perfect Omega—that Quentin can’t imagine anyone in Eliot’s life ever having made him feel differently. Watching him laugh at Quentin now, trying to hide a flicker of uncertainty behind a smile, Quentin realizes someone has. It’s the closest to Alpha rage Quentin thinks he’s capable of achieving. 

“You’re the most beautiful Omega in the world.” Quentin isn’t being hyperbolic. It’s _essential_ that Eliot understand this. “You’re tall, and bossy, a-and lovely. You’re the best magician and everyone knows you have the most gorgeous nest on campus and I’m so lucky—and proud. _Proud,_ El, to be with you.”

“Oh.” Eliot looks, not surprised, but maybe taken aback. But happy. Really _really_ happy. “In that case. I’ll have to start curating a paternity wardrobe.” 

“I’ll have alphas posturing at me, when you start showing,” Quentin says, imagining all of the beautiful, soft, tailored things Eliot is going to be wearing for the next eight months. “There’s more than a few who were still counting on you dumping me so they’d have their chance.”

Eliot pouts. “Never.” 

Quentin is preening. A little. Sue him. “I know. But still. They’ll be pissed.” 

Eliot peeks at him with one slitted eye, grin slanting his lips. “And here I’ll be, good and claimed. Little alpha likes that, huh?” 

Quentin squirms and snuggles in so that his weight is resting on top of Eliot, just a little. “Maybe.” 

Eliot half laughs as he wraps his arms around Quentin’s shoulders. “Maybe me too,” he says, low in the sliver of space between them, scent going warm and syrupy. “Maybe, you’ve made me all wet, and you should think about putting your dick in me now.” 

“So romantic.” Quentin chuffs in the corner of Eliot’s jaw, feeling frisky and mischievous.

“Hey.” Quentin leans up so that Eliot can kiss him, cupping his face in his big lovely hands. 

“My mate,” Eliot murmurs, eyes bright and soft. “Father of my pup.” 

Quentin might die, right here. _Romantic_. “That’s me.” 

“That’s you.” Eliot strokes his thumbs over Quentin’s jaw. “I picked you out, the perfect alpha, just for me to have.” 

And he did, didn’t he? Eliot just says it, like it’s right and good and natural. And it is. It _so_ is. Quentin was _chosen_. To be Eliot's mate, and give him pups, and make him as happy as he can all the time. 

No one's ever chosen Quentin. And here Eliot wants him, with all his shy Alpha strangeness, to be perfect and just for him. 

The sex after that is slow and easy and sweet. Eliot likes feeling covered, and Quentin loves covering him. They stay face to face, even though Quentin is too short to kiss while he’s inside him. He’s the perfect height to play with Eliot’s chest, though, and they discover that pregnancy is going to make Eliot’s nipples heat levels of sensitive _all the time_. Quentin makes him come like that, using his mouth and his hands and stroking his cock inside him steady and even. 

“Alpha,” Eliot sighs, shuddering through his orgasm. “Want that knot.” 

Quentin wants what Eliot wants. Especially this, fitting his cock in again and again until he locks and he can only grind into Eliot with an oversensitive whine. Eliot bears down and keeps Quentin close against his chest, purring again and rumbling sweet nothings as they give each other all the pleasure they can. 

No one’s in heat, so his knot doesn’t last too long. They spend it enjoying the press of each other’s bodies, and the warmth of Eliot’s bower. They also start doing a little planning, in the hazy, giddy, post coital sense. (“—the look on Henry’s face. I can’t wait. I feel bad about Sunderland though, I feel like I’ve already given her enough gray hair at this point.”) 

They separate, but stay close, and Quentin is considering a little mid morning snooze when a thought drops into his head like a pebble in a still pond. There’s someone he really wants to tell. Before everyone else. Definitely before _Henry_ _Fogg_ at least. 

“Hey.” Suddenly he’s excited. Nervous, but excited. This is going to make it real. Something outside the secret circle of Eliot and Quentin and Margo. “Hey, El.” 

“Hm?” Eliot feels about ready to doze off again, his limbs languid where he’s holding Quentin tucked under his chin.

“Can we call my dad?” 

Eliot perks up again. “You want to?”

“Yeah. He’s going to be over the moon.” 

Eliot rubs his jaw into the top of Quentin’s head, scenting him. “Then we should call him.” Between them, a loud gurgle. It’s Eliot’s stomach. “But maybe over breakfast?” 

“Definitely.” 

Once Eliot is seated at the breakfast nook with a cheese omelet (and toast, and bacon, and a big glass of juice... and some pizza reheated from last night. Quentin is going to cover all of his bases. His mate is hungry and he needs to provide!) they cast Cone of Technology so Quentin can dial up his dad in New Jersey. 

Quentin holds the phone to his ear, waiting. His knee is jiggling under the table. He’s nervous. Why is he nervous? Two rings and then— “Hi, dad.” 

“ _Hey, Curly Q. Everything okay?"_ Ted’s voice is a little tinny, like a 90’s landline, but the spell cuts through the magic interference. 

“Yeah, definitely. Everything’s fine.” Quentin feels a little frisson of guilt, that even now his dad expects a surprise phone call to be bad news. But this is good news. The best news. Hopefully. “Everything’s great, actually. Um, Eliot and I—Eliot’s here too, by the way— we, um. I mean—” 

The words get a little stuck. At the first trace of distress in Quentin’s scent Eliot holds his hand out for the phone. He sets it on the table and puts it on speaker. 

“Ted, hi.” Eliot tucks their feet together under the table. Their combined scent has suffused the kitchen, along with the proof that Quentin can feed his mate and pup, at least when it comes to breakfast foods. His instincts tell him this is a good, safe place, and Quentin’s nervous energy settles. Eliot in his bathrobe looks like something divine as he says: “Quentin wants to tell you that you’re going to be a grandfather.” 

His dad cries. Of course he does. Alpha or Omega, the Coldwater men are all big softies. The truth is this time last year they didn’t think Ted would live to see Quentin have pups of his own. There were times Quentin didn’t know if _he_ would live that long. So, yeah, it’s emotional, watching Eliot blush and preen while Ted asks him all kind of questions about how he’s feeling and how far along he is and whether he’s started having any crazy nesting impulses yet. 

“ _I have so much outdated advice stocked up_ ,” Ted declares. “ _You need anything, Omega to Omega, Eliot, you can call me day or night._ ” 

Eliot looks so happy and relieved, it almost makes Quentin’s heart hurt. It’s like he still expects Ted to change his mind one day, and decide Eliot _is_ too bossy, or too tall, or too free with his instincts, and Quentin should have a better Omega for his mate. 

(Eliot doesn’t know that that will never, _ever_ happen. He doesn’t know that Quentin’s dad is basically alive today because of him. He only knows that—coincidentally—the same week that Quentin brought Eliot around to stay for a weekend at the beginning of last summer, Ted started responding to treatment. He doesn’t know about the phone call, and Ted’s “now don’t you put any pressure on him, Q, I mean it” and the doctor’s figuring out that Ted being around another healthy, happy Omega—his dad had never had much of an Omega community; he’d always had a hard time making friends—was actively helping him fight off the cancer. Eliot only knows that Quentin thought last summer might be his dad’s last, and he wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. Because Eliot didn’t want Quentin to be alone, because he stayed with him and kept him busy and let Quentin make him part of his family, Quentin’s dad is going to have a lot more summers to look forward to.) 

“ _I know you both have a lot on your plates at that fancy school, but a pup is always a wonderful thing, no matter when it arrives. I’m so happy for you._ ” 

“We’re happy too.” They’re so happy. So unbelievably happy. “We’ll keep you updated, dad.” 

“ _You’d better._ ” Ted laughs, still a little teary. “ _And I want a picture of the sonogram, if that’s still a thing you magic folks do_.” 

“I’m sure we can make it happen.” 

They talk for a little longer, Ted’s tinny voice leaking pride and joy like a rusted through pipe. By the time they hang up Quentin cheeks are warm. All of him is warm, like his insides have been replaced with caramel. Eliot cleans his plate. His scent is so contented and pleased it’s almost like a drug, or sitting in a sauna. Quentin isn’t going to need any of Josh’s medicinal creations for the next nine months, that’s for sure. 

He must look a little dreamy, because Eliot laughs at him as he finishes his juice. Beside him, Eliot’s phone chirps. 

“That’ll be Bambi,” he says, thumbing through his messages. “We’ve been summoned back upstairs. It’s time for battle plans.” 

Eliot’s grin is sharp and glorious, and Quentin knows the next nine months are going to be amazing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first trimester! I can't wait to hear your comments. I hope you're enjoying this tender Eliot-centric journey!

Eliot gives himself a grace period of two weeks before he talks to any of his professors. Now that he knows what’s going on it’s easier to reason himself out of some of his more disruptive instinctual responses. Even so, most of the period isn’t exactly what he would call “graceful.”

As if the universe had courteously granted them a window of pure sexual euphoria as a gift for Eliot bringing new life into the world, it’s only a few days after Quentin and Eliot’s mating that some of the less mystical and horny aspects of pregnancy set in. Namely, morning sickness. Eliot’s day from about seven to ten is now dedicated to queasiness punctuated with occasional vomiting. 

It sucks ass, but once Eliot makes it through his now ritual nine AM up chuck Quentin is always waiting to rub his back, feed him saltines and bring him perfectly chilled mini cans of ginger ale. (Eliot could make do with a regular can of ginger ale, but something about the tiny bright green cans pings his hindbrain, like he’s draining the nausea easing nectar out of a vibrant, nutrient dense fruit. Which is a weird thing to get horny about, but Eliot takes his pleasure where he finds it.)

Eliot celebrates reaching the eight weeks with a particularly bad morning. It’s nearly ten, and he has places to be. The only place he can manage right now is his tiny ensuite. He finishes his third round of dry heaving (his stomach gave up the last of its meager contents a half hour ago), and hears a rustle outside the bathroom door. 

“Q?”

More rustling, and then Quentin’s scent goes warm and comforting through the door. “Uh, yeah, I’m here.” 

“You okay?” Eliot didn’t mean to wake him up. He’s keeping Quentin on his toes lately, and he’s been trying to make sure his rising sun puking sessions haven’t been cutting further into Quentin’s insomniac sleep cycle.

“Yeah, I was up. I just felt...like I should be guarding you, I guess.” 

Eliot lets out a sad little huff. “If I wasn’t literally in the middle of puking my guts up that would be so sexy.” 

Quentin whines sympathetically. 

“I think I’m done, at least.” Eliot presses the plunger on the toilet and kneels back. “Grab my purple blanket and come in here for a few minutes?” 

Once he’s in them, Eliot has a hard time leaving enclosed spaces. More than five minutes in his bathroom and his body starts making birth plans without his permission. So it takes a little transition time before he’s ready to emerge into the wide world and greet the day. 

Eliot rinses his mouth out as Quentin drags his queen sized throw off the top of his bower and into the bathroom. He wedges them in between the tub and the vanity, his fluffy blanket protecting them from the cold laminate tile. He hooks his chin over Quentin’s shoulder so he can take comfort from his scent and the softness of his worn in t-shirt. From downstairs, Eliot can hear the house coming alive, the Physical kids elbowing for space at the coffee maker on their way to morning classes. There’s a murmur drifting up from the living room, Ancient Greek practice for an afternoon seminar. It chafes at him. Don’t they know that this is his den? That he needs peace and quiet, without the errant whiff of sulphur from potions gone wrong turning his stomach? 

Eliot grumbles against Quentin’s scent gland. Of course they don’t know. Because this  _ isn’t  _ his den. It’s communal fucking student housing. 

“Do you need a soda?” Quentin covers Eliot’s hands with his own where they’re wrapped around his waist. 

“I’ll have one in a minute.” Eliot sighs. “Last meeting today, so at least show and tell will finally be over.” 

Quentin hums, a flicker of nerves coming through his scent. “With Dean Fogg.” 

Bless his heart, Q still had a second year’s fear of Brakebills’s headmaster. Fogg cultivated the anxiety like a backyard patch of weed. Eliot had no such compunctions.

“Henry is the least of my worries. He either won’t care or he’ll retire on the spot.”

“Things are good with your advisor, then?”

“Sunderland took it well, actually. She was a little mama bear about the whole thing, to be honest.” Eliot rolls his eyes. There’s only room for one mama bear on this campus, and it’s going to be  _ him _ , thank you. “Van der Weghe almost cried trying to figure out how to congratulate me without being sexist about it, so I’m pretty much off the hook with him now.” 

Quentin laughed softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The sight makes Eliot chuff, happy Omega sounds bubbling up despite his lingering nausea. Eventually his stomach settles and the toll of the tower bell tells Eliot it’s time to get Quentin to class and himself to the dean’s office.

“Come help me pick out a tie,” Eliot says, intending to allow Quentin to do no such thing. “The possibility of giving Henry a heart attack calls for a formal ensemble.” 

* * *

“Mr. Waugh.” By the time Eliot takes a seat in Fogg’s mahogany paneled office (a little Harvard for Eliot’s tastes, but he can respect the classics), the dean is already opening his liquor cabinet. “I assume the honor of your presence comes with developments that will require a drink. Would you like one?” 

Eliot spares a thought for Fogg’s collection of excellent scotch, but it’s eleven AM and also he’s obviously not drinking lately. “No, thank you.” 

Fogg raises an eyebrow. “Cutting back?” 

Eliot raises his own eyebrows. “No, I’m pregnant.” 

He wishes he could take a picture of Fogg’s frozen expression. After a beat Fogg manages to school himself and sighs deeply, placing his scotch on the desk and taking his seat. 

“I had imagined something much worse than that, so cheers.” He toasts his glass in Eliot’s direction. “Now, do tell why you’ve chosen to involve me in your and Mr. Coldwater’s family planning.” 

Eliot shrugs with an aristocratic air. “Just making the rounds. I thought you might want to congratulate me.” 

“Mazel tov.” 

“Thank you.”

Fogg’s effort to restrain himself from rolling his eyes is truly admirable. “And you still plan to graduate in June?” 

“Ideally. And after that…” 

“After that. Do you have a position lined up for the summer? An apprenticeship?” 

No. “Things are up in the air,” Eliot replies. “Regardless, Lipson is my GP, and my mate is here, and will be through next year.” 

“And you would like to remain as well. With your newborn.” 

Eliot crosses his legs, resting his folded hands on his knee. “That would be up to you. I’d like to at least know what my options are before I reach the point of no return on denning instincts.” 

“Indeed. Your situation is unusual, but hardly unprecedented.” Fogg pauses, as if in homage to the sheer amount of inter-student fucking they both know happens on this campus. “Like most non-magical campuses we have policies in place to assure the continued housing of pregnant alumni whose mates are completing their studies. Brakebills has been your home for three years. I fail to see how one more would strain our resources.”

“So I could keep my nest where it is until Q graduates. In theory.” 

“No one is going to evict you from the Physical Discipline Cottage, and if anyone  _ could _ raise a pup in that glorified frat house it would be you,” Henry admits. “But is that your ideal?” 

The presence of half a dozen alcoholic potheads shooting off cantrips at all hours of the day and night is already grating on Eliot’s nesting instincts, as proud as he was two months ago to be one of them. The idea of nursing a pup in that environment... “No.” 

“I would think not. On the other hand, while we could connect you to appropriate off campus housing, I don’t imagine that you find the prospect of separation from Mr. Coldwater to be a palatable one, even with a portal between you.”

The very idea makes Eliot break out in a cold sweat. Which is a problem. 

“So let’s think on that. Particularly as regards the fall semester. Summer will rather be a moot issue, I imagine.” 

Eliot swallows the urge to go find Quentin and handcuff them together. “Right.” 

“Also,” Fogg continues. “Somewhat related, I’ve informed your advisor that I won’t be approving your proposed thesis topic.” 

Well. Now Eliot has  _ two  _ problems. 

“What the fuck, Henry?” 

Fogg raises his eyebrows.

“Eliot, you are, and have always been, an incredibly intuitive magician. A powerful one, in perfect symbiosis with your dynamic in a way that defies our curriculum. Couple that with your…” Fogg pauses. “... _ aesthetic _ , and I can’t help but feel that you have more to give than—” He looks down at a note on his desk. “—‘the impact of telekinetic disciplines on the circumstances of spatial compression spells’. That topic is hardly going to earn you a mentor. Or am I mistaken?”

Eliot would cross his arms if it didn’t threaten to ruin the lines of his suit. “I’ve kind of had other things on my plate.” 

“Indeed you have. It’s for that exact reason that I will no longer be accepting mediocrity.” Fogg rises, indicating that their meeting is over. “Impress me, Mr. Waugh. I think you know that you and your future progeny deserve it. And do think about your living situation. I have a feeling you of all people will prove capable of a creative solution.” 

Eliot waits a beat before standing, just to remind Fogg that he’s a little bit of a shit. “Thanks. I’ll marinate on that and get back to you.”

Quentin has class, but Bambi is waiting for him outside Fogg’s office. They walk arm in arm back to the Cottage, Eliot gently poisoning the air with his irritated pheromones. Margo lets him steep until they’re safely inside and Eliot can marginally relax. 

“Let me guess, Henry was a dick.” 

“He’s an insult to the very concept.” Even worse, Eliot knows Fogg is  _ right _ . “I need to prowl and eat bread while wearing a silk robe.” 

Margo kicks off her heels. “Honey, I thought you’d never ask.” 

* * *

Morning sickness and hormones continue to kick his ass for a while. The future is moved to the back burner while Eliot focuses on not falling behind in class and keeping down fluids and prenatal vitamin potions. Then...

“There’s baby, looking good.” 

Eliot is at ten weeks. His belly is still flat and yet, here is his pup! A bun in his oven, coming along nicely. (It’s a weird little alien looking thing the size of a walnut and Eliot loves them  _ so much.)  _ The spelled gel is cool below his navel, allowing Lipson to project the magical sonogram onto the wall. Beside him, Quentin is mesmerized, his eyes sparkling with tears and his scent sparking with  _ happy proud nervous excited.  _

“Oh, right, and I’m sure you’ll want to hear—“ 

Lipson curls her ring finger out of the tut, like she’s spinning a radio dial, and the room is filled with a hushed rhythmic  _ whoosh whoosh whoosh.  _ Eliot feels the sound in his bones. Quentin grips his hand this side of too tight and gasps. 

His pup is growing. His pup is healthy. His alpha is pleased. Barbaric endorphins wash through Eliot’s blood and he knows he must seem a little tipsy when he leans over to kiss his mate. 

“Look what we made, Q.” 

Eliot is going to make a place for them. A den for Quentin to guard. A hearth to keep his pup safe and warm and loved. The answer is on the tip of his tongue. He just needs a little more time. 

They get a print out of the sonogram for Ted, and swing by the library so Eliot can check out a few books on magical architecture. 

* * *

Eliot is at twelve weeks when he ends up solving both of his problems at once, and the answer comes to him in a dream. It’s all very Fleetwood Mac, honestly. One minute he’s drifting off in the nest with Quentin after a particularly good fuck, and the next the lines of his bower are lit up with fractals. Eliot always knew about the patterns. There’s a rhyme and reason to every thread in his nest, and mathematical harmony to each dangling crystal. The lines flow over his body, bioluminescent. They criss cross over his heart, and the heartbeat in his barely there bump (the recently emerged proof of his pup that Eliot can touch and feel and  _ know _ ). They criss cross over Quentin, held close and safe beside him even in his dreams. 

Q in the moonlight, with his sleepy eyes.  _ Could you ever love a man like me? _ He let Eliot walk into his life and make the shape of himself there. Now Eliot’s turned around and taken Quentin in. He’s made something out of both of them. He wants to keep building. 

_ Where do we live, Q? Where do I bring this pup into the world? What do I do with myself afterwards?  _

His bower glows and throbs like the heartbeat Lipson showed him on the sonogram, and pulling from the warmth of Quentin curled around him—little space heater—Eliot pushes until the spiraling patterns spill out onto the floor. They trace shapes until Eliot can see rooms, lovely crescents spreading out with his bower at the center like the stamen of a flower. The lights hover in the air, walls and floors and windows like the film of a soap bubble. It’s an iridescent wireframe model of what Eliot is going to make for them. Something Eliot can only make because seven years ago he decided to run away and let the soft animal parts of himself breathe. 

This is going to be their  _ den _ , built out of him and Quentin and their love and their pup. 

Eliot wakes up to moonlight with a serene exhale. He leaves Quentin in bed with a kiss, puts on a flowing shirt for Stevie Nicks, and sits down at his desk to start working out the circumstances. 

The sun is coming up when Quentin pads over to check on him, no doubt woken up by the regular  _ ding _ of the typewriter carriage. 

“New thesis inspiration?” 

“Kind of.” Eliot smiles as Quentin kisses the top of his head. “It’s for us, too.” 

“How can I help?” 

“Make me an omelette?” Eliot puts a little pleading in his voice, nuzzling under Quentin’s chin. “I’m starving.” 

Quentin scampers off to get territorial in the kitchen and Eliot sorts ten pages of notes into something resembling an actual thesis proposal. 

(He’s so engrossed he doesn’t notice when the morning nausea doesn’t come, as though his body has finally made peace with itself.) 

Sunderland is skeptical at first.

“This isn’t what you proposed in December.” 

Eliot snorts. “That topic was bullshit.” 

“There wasn’t any question of that,” she agrees, brow furrowing as she flips through his new proposal. “But this is…” 

“My actual life. Something that matters,” Eliot says. “God forbid, it might matter to other people.” 

“You’re going to build a house.” 

“I’m going to draw on the innate magical properties of Omega bower building to materialize a permanent, contemporary dwelling.” Eliot flips to show her the circumstantial diagram. “I assume you’ve read Carlisle and Diwana’s—“

“ _ Fertile Alchemies.  _ ‘The nest is not only a comfort space, it’s a locus of magical power.’ Yes, I know.” 

Eliot nods. “No one has applied the principle to architecture—“ 

“Because the field of magical architecture is one of the oldest and most conservative sub fields—“ 

“—which is ridiculous because bowers are fundamentally structures,” Eliot says. “They have rules and patterns that  _ only  _ nesting Omegas can interpret and reproduce. We’re all natural born architects. Channel those patterns through generative conjugal spellcasting—“ 

“Sex magic?” 

“And I’ll be able to fuck my ideal den into existence,” Eliot concludes. “And hypothetically fuck buildings for other purposes into existence too, with some fine tuning. Which you have to admit, is a thesis more my speed.” 

Sunderland raises her eyebrows. She flips back and forth through his proposal for a few minutes, underlining several things in his footnotes. Then she picks up the twentieth century rotary phone receiver on her desk and dials a number. 

There’s a brief wait, and then Eliot hears the vague rumble of a man’s voice on the other hand of the line.

“Hi, Paul. I’ve got a senior here named Eliot Waugh. You wanted me to call?” 

Sunderland listens for a moment, and then passes Eliot the receiver. 

“...Hello?”

“Eliot? My name is Paul Germaine. Pearl promised she would call me if any of her students ever reinvented architecture as we know it. Are you by chance still looking for a mentor?” 

“That depends,” Eliot says. “Can you help me figure out crown molding? I don’t plan on giving birth under barn ceilings and the circumstances are kicking my ass because Venus is in the third house.” 

Paul laughs. “Now I  _ really  _ want to hear about this project. Can I buy you lunch?” 

“So that’s one less thing to worry about,” Eliot informs Quentin that afternoon as they settle into the nest for a little post-class cuddle. Quentin sparkles up at him from his place under the covers, curled into him with one square hand stroking over his belly. 

“You’re amazing.” 

Eliot stretches, coincidentally showing off the graceful curve of his marked throat. “I know.” 

_ Nothing to it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage you all to go listen to Leather and Lace now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tenderness! i wrote this instead of a school paper, lol. Comments will give me an excuse to take healthy study breaks tomorrow.

At sixteen weeks, Eliot is showing. He’s tall, and thin, and has lived most of his life on a diet of cocktail olives. Little changes show, and this is not a little change. Eliot doesn’t try to hide his pregnancy. His well known passion for tailoring would make a sudden switch to draped tunics (god forbid _athleisure)_ as obvious as the modest bump he’s sporting. 

(Besides, Eliot _wants_ people to know. Aside from being a glamorous megabitch in general, now he’s mated the love of his life and he’s carrying their _pup_. He could sing Streisand about it all day.)

That said, he does have to make some adjustments. Tailoring spells go a long way, but there are some elements of men’s fashion that were simply not meant to be fitted to a pregnant body. Waistcoats and jackets stop buttoning after he pops, needless to stay. The lovely line of a tie isn’t as elegant bowing out over his convex stomach. (He cries his eyes out over that. Welcome to the second trimester, where his tear ducts are on a hair trigger.) But Eliot’s wardrobe is as deep as it is iconic. For every vest that will have to wait for his post-pup bod, he has a cashmere cardigan that’s been languishing in the back of his closet. Ties tuck into a shirt military style or give way entirely to suspenders and open collars that show off Eliot’s mating mark. He satisfies his need to nest with architectural velvet coats and indulgent oversize scarves that sit decadently on his tall frame. Eliot is sharp, shimmering, and soft. All shall love him and despair. 

Today’s look is a deep green floral velvet jacquard button down with a soft collar buttoned up to his throat. It has a little stretch that gives over his belly without distorting the pattern and a bit of balloon in the sleeve to balance his changing silhouette. He’s tucked it into a grey herringbone trouser with a magically elastic waist. The matching jacket serves to decorate his chair where he’s camped out in the library and a buttery pair of two-tone Oxfords bring the look together. Eliot is serving fertile academic realness. Maybe a little too well. 

Eliot is well on his way to a tension headache, flipping through some decorative architecture theory trying to troubleshoot an arched doorway issue (because skimming large swaths of text is his _favorite_ activity at which he really _excels_ ) when he scents another Omega hovering nearby. A glance to his left shows a young red-head with two to-go cups in hand half hidden behind a nearby shelf. She’s still wearing her coat like she just got in from the campus cafe. 

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, noting the slight edge of anxiety to her scent. Instincts have him ready to go mama bear over this twenty-two year old if need be. God, he’s going to be intolerable in six months. 

“Um, this is for you.” She darts forward to place one of the steaming cups on the edge of Eliot’s table and backs away just as quick. “It’s caffeine free.” 

“...thank you?” Eliot raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry!” she bursts out. “I know this is, like, so out of line, but I saw you in here and you didn’t have a drink and I was getting myself one and I felt like a terrible person if I didn’t—”

“Provide. Right.” Eliot relaxes. “I’ve been hearing that a lot, lately.” He doesn’t recognize her. She must still be in the first year dorms. “I think I might be exerting some influence with all this.” Eliot gestures to his glorious pregnant self. “So don’t worry about it. Anyways, tea sounds nice. Let me venmo you.” 

“Nope! No problem, it’s a gift!” The Omega just pushes the tea a little closer to him on the table before disappearing with an embarrassed squeak, her scent pleased. Shrugging, Eliot picks up the to-go cup and breathes in the aromatic steam. Chamomile. Nice. He places the offering next to the mittens from the Nature kid who was worried he might be cold and the chocolate covered espresso beans from the Illusionist who clearly didn’t know much about pregnancy. Margo will enjoy those later. Lord knows Eliot would love a caffeine boost trying to get to the bottom of load bearing walls and how to perforate them, but alas. 

It’s come to Eliot’s attention that he’s the only pregnant Omega on campus, and his delicate condition comes with some powerful and _unintentional_ effects. 

“More admirers?” 

Quentin drops his messenger bag in the empty seat at Eliot’s table and bends down to kiss him hello. 

“How was seminar?” 

“Pretty good. All clockwork this week, turns out I’m pretty good at object manipulation as long as it’s smaller than a breadbox.” Quentin picks up the mittens. “Damn, are these handmade?” 

He looks thrilled. Quentin seems to think strangers leaving Eliot offerings like he’s a pagan fertility god is amusing and deserved, as though being worshipped is Eliot’s rightful due. (Which, is he wrong? No.) 

“I know. I must be giving off some crazy pheromones,” Eliot says, rubbing his face into Quentin’s throat to scent him. “Motivating randos to protect the life-giver, and all that.”

“You’re stunning, El. That’s all. Like, you’re gorgeous all the time, but you know how pretty you get in pre-heat?” Quentin flushes, his voice dropping down to a near whisper. Eliot hums, raising an eyebrow. 

“It may have been pointed out to me by a particular alpha suitor, yes.” 

“Shut up, you already knew.” Quentin nips under Eliot’s jaw, playful. “Anyways, you look like that all the time. You smell like it too, but—um—a little less—” 

“Randy? I sure hope so, or I’ve been giving my gift-bearers the wrong impression.” 

“I’m sure they got the context clues.” Quentin rests his hand on Eliot’s belly, stroking his thumb over the velvet. “You’re gorgeous, is all I’m trying to say. All of campus, it’s like—hm—like we’re just satellites in your orbit.” 

Eliot let a few jokes about being planet-sized slip by. Quentin is trying to be sweet, and he’s doing a great job. “I think I could make do with just one particular satellite.” 

Bingo. Quentin ducks his head against Eliot’s shoulder and makes a little growly sound of pleasure. “You’ve got him.” 

Eliot smiles. “I know.” 

“How are things going here?” Quentin gestures to the array of books and diagrams Eliot has spread out on the table. Eliot makes a sound of disgust as he slaps his notebook closed. 

“I’m spinning my wheels and ready for lunch.” 

“Perfect.” 

They take over the Physical Kid’s kitchen and Quentin makes them both sandwiches (a surprisingly tricky food genre for pregnant people. Quentin solved the deli meat issue by having Eliot teach him how to whole roast chicken and slicing it up himself). Eliot devours his (and a carton of raspberries, and some homemade sweet potato chips) and vents a little about his lack of progress in the library. Paul is out of town, and the best casting window is going to be the next full moon and Eliot still has so much left to organize or he’ll miss the graduation deadline... 

Quentin is telling him about some of his school week developments (“my discipline is getting narrowed down. I’m definitely a physical kid, at least”) When Eliot nudges a pile of mail on the table by his elbow and discovers a long buried blue tin of cookies underneath. Danish butter biscuits, straight out of every twentieth century child’s deepest buried nostalgic longing. Eliot is suddenly overwhelmed by the desire for one of those crumbly, off-brand cookies. It consumes him. He _needs_ them. Quentin loads the dishwasher while Eliot practically rips the lid off the tin, mouth watering. 

...but there are no cookies inside. Only expired spell ingredients and twine. Eliot has to swallow down the bitter, bitter disappointment. He’s more than a creature of cravings and instinct. He can carry on. Except he flips over the lid to close the tin and is confronted with a charming scene of a Swiss chalet. It’s perfect, all wreathed in snow, looking snug and cozy and structurally sound— 

Eliot bursts into tears. 

“Eliot—fuck, what’s wrong?” Quentin’s scent goes sharp and he tosses aside a dish towel to cup Eliot’s face between his hands. “Are you hurt? What happened? Did I say something?” 

“ _I can’t make this_.” Eliot shoves the tin at Quentin. “I’ve been reading all day and I hate it, and I can’t figure it out fast enough, and this stupid _useless_ _cookie-less_ tin has a better house than ours!”

“Oh, El.” 

Tears are rolling down Eliot’s cheeks, his shoulders heaving. This is _humiliating_. All he wanted was a fucking piece of shortbread. Quentin at least seems calmer now that he knows Eliot isn’t about to spontaneously combust. 

“It’s okay.” He strokes up and down Eliot’s forearms, ignoring the cookie tin still clutched in his arms. “You’re alright.” 

“I’m _not.”_

Quentin huffs, almost a laugh. “Listen, at the risk of getting castrated—”

Eliot sobs harder. “I would _never_ do that!” Quentin’s dick is the most perfect thing in the world. Eliot would be _lost_ without it.

“—Sorry! Sorry, sweetheart, I know. I just...I think you’ve had a long day, and you might be a little overtired.” 

“I’m not _tired,_ I’m _devastated_ that we are never going to have a den this cute because I can’t figure out _fucking enclosed support beams_.” Eliot slams the cookie tin on the table. The only reason it isn’t on fire is because his hands are too shaky to cast. 

“Hey. Just hang on.” Quentin moves the tin out of firing range, so Eliot doesn’t have to see that fucking _perfect_ cottage anymore. Then he kneels down between Eliot’s thighs, massaging Eliot’s shaking hands in his own. He tips his chin up and bears his throat, submitting. His sweet little alpha. 

Eliot whines. Pathetic. “Q.” 

“I know.” Quentin’s eyes are bright and earnest. “What can I do?” 

“Do you know anything about enclosed support beams?” 

Quentin shakes his head. “Paul will help you when he gets back from his ground breaking in Hong Kong. Like he said last week. What can I do for you, right now?” 

His mate’s voice is soothing and calm, which makes Eliot feel mean and prickly. He manages to tip that over to prickly and affectionate, tugging Quentin in between his legs and smushing him against his belly. Judging by Quentin’s contented snuffling, the move isn’t exactly a hardship. Eliot leans his weight on him, feeling the ache in his back and shoulders all at once. 

“I’m tired,” Eliot says, as if Quentin hadn’t suggested the same thing ten seconds ago. 

“Ok. Do you want to lay down for a while?” 

Eliot sniffs. “Only if you come guard me.” 

If Quentin had a tail it would be wagging. A year and sixteen weeks and sweet, nerdy Q is still just happy to be _invited_. Eliot is so lucky. They leave the offending cookie tin in the kitchen and head upstairs. Just the sight of his nest makes Eliot relax. Quentin helps him strip out of his fitted clothes, and Eliot indulges in one of Quentin’s soft, oversized t-shirts. They lay down, Eliot draped over his mate, drawing deep comforting lungfuls of his scent. 

“Are you too warm?” 

Quentin already sounds a little pheromone woozy when he says “Trust me, I’m exactly where I want to be right now.” 

Eliot is swamped with exhaustion, and he falls asleep clinging to Q like a teddy bear. 

He wakes up a few hours later feeling a lot better. Also, horny as fuck. So he sucks Quentin’s cock.

“Eliot— oh god, _fuck_ —” 

Quentin is such a perfect mouthful, just getting to the back of Eliot’s throat where he likes to feel a little warning flutter of _too much_. Eliot gives himself the present of Quentin’s dick in long, wet pulls, his lungs full of his mate’s scent at its most heady and concentrated. Quentin squirms and whines and comes, and Eliot swallows him down, greedy for every drop. 

_This belongs to me_ , he thinks, giving Quentin’s soft cock a friendly little nuzzle after he lets it go. _My exclusive property_. He glances up at Quentin, whose wide eyes have read Eliot like a book and don’t seem to have any objections to the sentiment. 

Eliot wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Good boy, alpha. Taking care of me.”

Quentin nods, still shell-shocked. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

Eliot toys around with having Quentin eat him out, or maybe finger him into oblivion, when his stomach rumbles, and all trace of arousal is instantly forgotten. 

“What time is it? Too early for dinner?” 

Quentin giggles helplessly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. From somewhere deep in the nest, his phone chirps. Quentin’s smile goes soft and warm when he checks the message. 

“Actually, the weather is warming up, so my dad thought he might grill tonight, if you’re up for a portal to Jersey. Margo is invited too, of course.”

Eliot eyes Quentin, who is practically wriggling he’s so pleased with his _oh so casual suggestion_. “You planned this. To cheer me up.” 

Quentin shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Maybe.” 

Eliot rewards him with a kiss and a sharp nip under the jaw. “Good puppy. Tell Margo I’ll be wearing the fawn cashmere if she wants to coordinate outfits.” 

Quentin pulls on his jeans and stumbles out to find Bambi while Eliot freshens up and dons his softest wool turtleneck. Suburb chic demands a grey chino and his favorite penny loafers. Eliot slips on a wrist watch to give a touch of sophistication and grabs a merlot cardigan just in case the two blocks from the portal to Ted’s are a little brisk. 

Margo is waiting when Eliot steps out into the hall, wearing a knee length cocoon sweater dress in heather gray and holding a familiar but distinct blue tin. 

“It’s polite to bring dessert, right?” Before Eliot can muster any outrage, she gives the tin a shake to demonstrate that this one does in fact contain cookies. Upon inspection the lid is blessedly chalet free. Eliot blinks back tears and squeezes Margo tight, scenting her hair. 

“I hope you didn’t go to a muggle grocery store on my account, Bambi.” 

“I made Todd go.” 

Eliot barks out a laugh. “Perfect.” 

Quentin’s head pops out of Margo’s room. “I’ve got the portal up. You guys ready?” 

Eliot rests one hand elegantly on his rounded stomach, his arm linked through Margo’s. “Let’s go.”

Eliot’s alpha is so smart. Somehow Quentin knew that the one thing Eliot really needed was to spend some time around other Omegas. Omegas who were safe. His _pack_.

Ted opens the door and pulls Quentin into a big hug, ruffling his hair to scent him like he’s still half a pup. And then—

“Eliot, look at you. You’re glowing.” 

“Hi, Ted.” Quentin’s dad looks great. He’s in remission, his hair finally grown back after a scary summer. Eliot meets Quentin’s eye, and sees his own happy relief mirrored back at him. They’d been so close to losing him, and Eliot had feared the first person who’d ever treated him like a son (just the way he was, instincts and queerness and all) was going to be ripped away when they’d just met. Instead, here they are, he and Quentin are going to make Ted a grandfather, and Eliot just feels so, so _lucky_ —

Ted just smiles when Eliot starts to sniffle. “C’mere, son.” He pulls Eliot into a warm hug, his scent paternal and homey. “Hormones are a kick in the head, huh?” 

“I’m just really glad to see you,” Eliot promises wetly. 

“Same here.” Ted rubs a few circles on Eliot’s back. “Now come in before you get a chill. I’ve got the heater on out back so it should be nice and cozy while I get these skewers on the grill.” 

Ted isn’t really a nester, not the way Eliot is, but his house is marked by squat, cozy furniture in various shades of plaid, and the back patio is no exception. Eliot helps out with some of the remaining prep work, then claims the corner of the squishy wicker sectional that frames the grilling area. A space heater takes the chill off the air as the early evening sun begins to set, and overall it makes for a picturesque dinner in the suburbs. Margo has put herself in charge of drinks, and she uncorks a bottle of red and pours while interrogating Ted about the marinade he’s chosen for the lamb kebabs.

“You might be sick of them by now, but I still have a few of those fancy ginger sodas in the fridge if you want one, Eliot,” Ted says as Margo hands him a half pour of wine. “Otherwise I have lemonade, or seltzer.”

Eliot fetches himself a soda (a lovely bit of consideration from Ted during the height of Eliot’s morning sickness) and when he comes back out Quentin is in the garden. He grins up at Eliot from the small patch of dirt just beyond the patio, trowel in hand. 

“We’ve been tricked. Dad just wanted to put me to work.” 

“I may have hoped that my capable alpha son wouldn’t mind handling a few tomato plants for me,” Ted says with a wink at Eliot and Margo. “My knees aren’t what they once were.” 

“And we get to enjoy the view.” Eliot clinks his bottle against Margo’s class, and it’s really just a perfect evening. 

Quentin handles the tomatoes, and stakes a few green beans, and dribbles in a row of tiny carrot seeds before covering them in a blanket of dark earth. Eliot loves watching him. He’s so gentle with delicate things, even the fronds of a just sprouted seedling. 

He’s going to be a wonderful father. 

Margo nudges him, and Eliot knows he’s been caught staring. So what? He’s not ashamed. The blush on his cheeks is just a flush from the space heater. 

“El.” Quentin brushes some excess dirt from his hands. “Come cast with me?” 

“Magic?” Ted’s eyes light up with interest as he places his meat and veggie skewers on the grill with a sizzle. “Nothing that makes the green beans purple, I hope.” 

“Ha, no. I was thinking Sedgewick’s Shield, just to keep the bugs off.” Quentin pushes his hair out of his eyes. “It’s better with two, if you’re up for it.” 

Who is Eliot to say no to a little collaborative spell with his adorable mate? He steps into the cool air beyond the radius of the heater to join Quentin in the garden. He slips off his shoes to spare his loafers and feels the rich dirt beneath his feet. Quentin faces him, lit up with his never ending enthusiasm for magic, and Eliot winks at him before they both press their palms together at eye level. They push their hands up, spreading out their fingers before flexing them down again and open towards each other. Welcoming the rays of the sun and encouraging growth. Their hands meet, and Eliot feels the tingling flow of magic between them. Such a little spell, but casting with your bonded mate is always special. They flip their hands parallel to the ground and stack them together, acknowledging the complexities of the soil and thanking the earth for its shelter. Finally, a sharp turn, they form a box between them, pushing outward with slow force, to banish disease and pests who would impede the life of the garden. 

Eliot releases the spell with a pleasant shiver, and by the sound of Quentin’s sigh he felt the same thing. He can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when they cast their den. Eliot opens his eyes in time to see the little shimmer of gold fade from the garden’s boundaries. 

“Nice casting, alpha.” 

Quentin tips his chin up for a kiss and Eliot gives him one, chuffing happily into his neck for a minute. It’s hard to believe a few hours ago he was feeling so discouraged, and here he is doing magic with his family. 

“Hey, soups on! Anytime you boys are ready.” Ted waves his tongs from behind the grill and as if on cue, Eliot’s stomach rumbles again. Quentin laughs, and Eliot nips at him for his cheek, but lets himself be led back toward the patio for a good meal.

He hardly takes a step when he feels something else. Something that isn’t his body making its hunger known. 

It’s a flutter, just behind his navel. 

“El?” 

Still barefoot in the grass, Eliot rests his hand on his belly. As if in greeting he feels it again, a delicate little flicker. 

“Oh.” His throat is tight again, but this time Eliot’s hormone induced tears are caused by happiness. He looks down at his bump, where his pup has just made their presence known. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” 

He looks up, and Quentin—Eliot’s loafers dangling from one of his square, capable, delicate hands—is beaming at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: Eliot's thesis


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE! This is a mini chapter(ish) because a cute moment got smutty and I wanted y'all to know that this fic is still very much alive and kicking. I hope you enjoy! Next time we build that den, baby. Comments will be woven into the nest for comfort and warmth.

Eliot is at twenty weeks, and the moon is full tonight. He blinks awake to the morning light pouring over his bower, the air warm and still and saturated with his and Quentin’s combined scent. Quentin is still asleep under him, his heart thumping steadily where Eliot has his ear pressed to his chest. His knees bend under the curve of Eliot’s belly like a comma. They’re a perfect set of interlocking pieces in any arrangement. Eliot breathes, taking in the warmth, and the softness, and the sparkle of the crystals over his head. 

Tonight he builds their den, and that means moving his nest. It’s going to be good, but this space has been good too, and no nest can ever be rebuilt exactly the same way twice. The bower Eliot built in the Cottage brought him his mate. Taking it apart won’t be easy, no matter how quickly it will be rebuilt for tonight’s casting.

Maybe the slightest whiff of distress filters through his scent, because Quentin wakes up. He makes an inquisitive hum deep in his chest, fingers threading into the hair at the base of Eliot’s skull. Eliot kisses the skin under his cheek and exhales a soft trill to let his mate know he’s alright. Quentin relaxes under him again, but when Eliot tips his chin up Quentin is looking at him, eyes bright. 

“I love those sounds you make.” 

As if on cue, Eliot huffs a little into Quentin’s pec, rubbing his cheek there to scent him. “You make them, too, sweetheart.” 

“I know. I just…” Quentin wrinkles his nose, looking for words. “I like it when you make them. I like—hm—that you feel like you can. That you let me hear them.” 

Eliot nuzzles him. That sounds kind of close to home. Closer than Eliot has necessarily shared with Quentin up to this point. But Eliot can tell this isn’t so much about him. 

“Want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t know. My mom—I just, I think everything my dad did annoyed her, even the normal Omega things.” Quentin strokes his thumb over the soft hair just behind Eliot’s ear. “He was just quiet, and kind of a nerd—like me, you know? But he made himself smaller and smaller to try and make her happy. It was never enough. So he kind of stopped making those sounds, unless it was just me and him. Sometimes not even then.” 

Quentin’s memory makes Eliot’s heart squeeze tight. 

“I remember, after they split up, it was really hard on him. Broken bond, right? But then, I got home from school one day, and Dad was setting out all of his planes on the living room shelves. Just, spreading himself out into all the space my mom made him feel like he couldn’t take up. And he was chuffing, just like you do when you find something good for your bower. Our house felt like a den again after that.” Quentin rubs his jaw into Eliot’s curls, scenting him and taking comfort at the same time. “So, um, yeah. I like the sounds.” 

Eliot presses a kiss to the base of Quentin’s throat. “I like _you_.” 

Quentin laughs. “That’s good to know, at this point.” 

Eliot feels a now familiar flutter behind his navel. “Someone’s awake,” he says, pressing his hand to his belly. “She likes it when you laugh.”

“She?” 

“Mhm.” 

Eliot can feel Quentin’s smile. “How do you know?” 

“I’m privy to all kinds of fertile magics, puppy.” 

“Of course you are.” Quentin covers Eliot’s hand with his own and sighs happily. “I can’t wait to feel her kick.”

“Any day now.” 

Eliot is smack dab in the middle of his second trimester. He’s at peak pregnancy cuteness too, if he’s being vain (when isn’t he?), with an unmistakable bump for Quentin to cup his big square hand over. Which... _hnnng._

They’re perfect like this, curled together in the nest. It’s about as quiet as Eliot’s instincts can get these days, holding onto his alpha enmeshed in a dim warm space, keeping their pup safe together. The urge to den is already creeping up, only halfway through. Paternity leave for Omegas informally starts a month before their due date because the primal instinct to withdraw into the nest is so overwhelming even in Omegas not usually inclined. It’s a sacred time for mates to bond and prepare for the arrival of a pup. 

Eliot needs a den, and the Cottage is not it. Hence tonight’s auspicious event. 

“So.” Quentin pets over Eliot’s bump in a soothing rhythm. “Big day.” 

“Yep.” 

“You excited?” 

“To fuck you? Always.” 

Quentin presses his nose to Eliot’s throat, inhaling greedily. His cheeks are a little pink. They always are, after a lungful of Eliot’s pheromones. Quentin pauses, though, and Eliot sighs. That stubborn little whiff of anxiety must still be there, detectable to only the most dedicated connoisseurs of all things Eliot. 

“El.” 

“Yeah, Q?” 

“You’re going to be amazing. Tonight. I know you have it all worked out. Just—um—” Quentin wriggles closer into Eliot’s arms. “Anywhere we den down, that’s home to me, you know? As long as it’s warm and safe and soft for you.”

Eliot stretches and purrs, leonine as he rolls on top of Quentin. He pins him down a little and kisses him, their pup pressed between them. “You’re warm and safe and soft for me.” 

Quentin nuzzles against Eliot’s mouth. “I try to be.” 

“You do a good job. We love it.”

Quentin’s eyes sparkle, and Eliot forgets his anxiety. He bites at Quentin’s throat playfully. “We should fool around a little, before I take the nest down.” 

Quentin wriggles under him, pleased. “Can I, um—” 

“You can have anything you want.” Eliot rocks his hips down and feels the press of Quentin’s pretty dick against his belly. “You always make me feel good, alpha.”

Quentin grips Eliot’s hips tight, but instead of rolling him over and mounting him (always a perfectly satisfactory turn of events, in Eliot’s book), he scoots down the bed a little, adorning Eliot’s throat and chest with biting kisses. Eliot braces himself on his forearms and lets Quentin work him into a state of dripping arousal, sucking on his mating mark until Eliot’s inner thighs are slick. Eliot whines and Quentin growls, his hands bracing on either side of his belly to take the strain off of his lower back. 

“God, like that, baby.” Eliot get’s a handful of Quentin’s hair to guide him down further, where his chest is soft and flushed. Quentin sucks one of his nipples into his mouth and Eliot almost chokes on the pleasure. “Oh, fuck—” 

Eliot’s chest is still decisively masculine, furred over his pecs where Quentin loves to card his fingers, but his body is getting ready to feed pups. He’s a little swollen, and so sensitive that a poor choice of undershirt can leave him in agony. Quentin’s mouth—god, the scrape of his _teeth_ —Eliot can feel it in his bones like fireworks. He’s panting for it, and so is Quentin, his hands still greedy on Eliot’s belly. Quentin fits his wet mouth to Eliot’s other pec and sucks hard enough to bruise. Eliot’s not sure if he’s going to cry or come.

He fucking loves it. 

“God, El, you’re amazing.” Quentin’s voice is muffled, a rumble against Eliot’s chest as he smears his face there. “You taste so fucking good.” 

“Mm, you like when I let you be mean to me, little alpha?” Eliot tugs sharply on Quentin’s hair when he nips at his chest again. God, a couple of hickey’s and he’s sweating, pleasure molten between his hips. “You like being all mine?” 

Quentin bares his throat with a whine. His mouth is pink and kiss swollen, his eyes dark from the thick pheromones. “Yeah. All yours.” 

“Then make me come.” Eliot pushes Quentin’s face back into his chest so his morning shadow scrapes against his nipples, a thrill of pleasure/pain sparking down Eliot’s spine. Quentin fumbles blind under Eliot’s belly until he can get a grip on his cock, thumbing the dripping head and pulling a gasp from his lips. Quentin strokes him, pulling pleasure out of him, while his soft little pink tongue darts out to lap at his chest, soothing away the threat of beard burn. 

“I’m going to be so soft when it’s time to nurse our pup,” Eliot rasps. “Gonna need this every day. You being sweet to me. Taking care of me.” 

Quentin stops bracing him, but the ache in Eliot’s back only lasts a moment as Quentin reaches behind and _tucks_ two fingers right into the sensitive slickness between his legs. It’s deep, and it _aches_ , and Eliot is coming. He drops is head and moans, legs like jelly as Quentin strokes him though it, the sound of his fist on Eliot’s cock now slick and wet with come. Eventually he goes sensitive and whimpers. Quentin eases his fingers out of him and releases his cock, wiping Eliot’s come on his own chest. 

“Gross,” Eliot declares, delighted and a little jealous. “Get up here and jerk off on me, alpha.”

Quentin doesn’t need to be told twice.

Besides weird cravings and crying jags, the one great tragedy of Eliot’s pregnancy is that he now lacks a lap for Quentin to sit on. They compromise, of course, Eliot on his back, resting on his elbows, while Quentin crawls over him on hands and knees. His cock is hard and red, the tip just brushing against Eliot’s belly. 

“Hm, look at you,” Eliot purrs. “Did I get you all worked up?” 

Quentin whines. “You know you did, asshole.”

Eliot grins, endorphins still singing in his blood. “We’ll take care of that.” 

Quentin has such a sweet little dick. It fits so nice in Eliot’s hand (it fits excellently other places as well, needless to say). Eliot’s still a little hormone addled, so he doesn’t aim for anything fancy, just rubbing their sweaty throats together while he jerks Q off, his legs spread around Quentin’s thighs like they’re fucking properly. Quentin is _so_ good for him, growling and pleading and furrowing his handsome heavy eyebrows while Eliot plays with his cock. Eliot can’t wait to have it in him later. 

“Please, El. God— _fuck,_ I need—” 

“Shh.” Eliot squeezes Quentin’s knot. “This is mine. I want it.” 

Quentin gasps as his dick twitches and he spurts white all over Eliot’s swollen belly. Now there’s an image to satisfy the hindbrain. Eliot tips his head back, a purr building in his chest as he strokes his mate off all over his chest and belly until he’s thoroughly spattered. 

“Oh shit.” Quentin’s chest is heaving, his knot going down in Eliot’s grip with one last little drip over Eliot’s popped out navel. “You’re like...really hot for this.” 

That’s rich considering how dilated Quentin’s eyes are right now. Eliot gives his cock a little warning squeeze. “Hormones, puppy. They’re a kick.” 

Quentin yelps and rolls away, careful of Eliot’s sticky stomach. Eliot pouts. “Don't go so far.” 

“I’m right here.” 

Eliot traces his fingers through the come on his belly, giving Quentin a saucy little wink. “Yeah, you are.” 

They’re both going to smell like sex for _days_. Quentin licks a drop of come from Eliot’s fingers and Eliot chirrups, totally blissed out. 

Now _this_ is the proper headspace for den building.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the big event (well, second biggest event of this fic lol). Comments will be added as a garnish to a delicious cheese omelette and savored.

Eliot builds the new foundation for their den in a nice clearing about a hundred yards from the Physical Kids Cottage on the edge of campus (“Yes, accounting for the wards was a bitch. No, I do _not_ want to talk about it.”) Quentin guards him, and brings him snacks, and digs his thumbs into that _exact spot, fuck, puppy, right there_ whenever things get a little tight from all the soft furnishings architecture going on. 

Besides that, Quentin pretty much useless. There is clearly a system at work in Eliot’s carefully sorted nesting materials, but Quentin couldn’t begin to tell you what it is. Pillows, bedding, and various gifted or stolen clothing items surround the boundary of their future den, and Eliot knows exactly where everything is without even looking. He does heavy lifting when Eliot is too involved in something else to use his telekinesis and otherwise just stays out of the way and drools over Eliot’s obvious competence with this. 

Quentin is briefly distraught when Eliot banishes him to his evening seminar. Leave his mate outside? Alone? 

“None of that, now,” Eliot purrs, rubbing his wrists over Quentin’s throat (like they don’t both smell freshly fucked anyway). “It’s Omega alone time. I need to do some spell prep and be a little instinct crazy in the nest, and then I’ll be ready for you, okay? I’m going to put up some wards and nobody will be able to come in.” 

Quentin must look absolutely tragic, because Eliot pouts and kisses him. “Go to class and eat a big dinner so I can get this chalk circle drawn without your scent making me irresponsibly horny. I have to pass my thesis and you’re going to need your strength.” 

With one more kiss and a pat on the behind Eliot sends him off to class. 

Quentin suffers dramatically through two hours and fifty minutes of applied kinetic spell theory. He takes the most detailed notes of his life, scribbling down every bit of minutiae just to keep his thoughts in the room and not in the clearing where his pregnant mate is building them a home. Not flunking out of school is part of being a good alpha, he reminds himself. Eliot is always going to be the breadwinner, Quentin isn’t under any delusions otherwise (he’s relieved, honestly, to be shaping up to be a bit of a house alpha), but it matters, somehow, for Eliot to see that Quentin takes himself seriously. That there doesn’t have to be a quest. Their life together is the quest now, and Quentin is as dedicated as Eliot to making it the best life possible in any small way he can. 

That thought centers him until class is over and he’s weaving his way between students towards the Physical Kids Cottage. The sun is set (fuck 7 PM seminars, by the way) and the moon is washing campus blue.

It’s almost time. Quentin scurries to the Cottage. He drops his books and eats a protein bar before stepping back out into the night and towards their clearing. He can see Eliot’s wards before he clears the narrow path through the tree line, the chirp of crickets in his ears. The wards glow gold and opaque in the little wood, like Eliot pitched a yurt around his new bower. Quentin shivers. It almost looks real already, the walls of magic lining up with the boundaries that will become their den. It’s not going to be anything like the split level den Quentin grew up with in New Jersey, he can tell. Eliot’s den will be unique, and perfect, like him. Like them. Something no one in the world has ever done before. 

Stepping through the wards feels like parting a sheet of jello. The shimmering nexus stretches and suctions closed behind him, and the chaotic sounds of night are replaced by warm, close silence. Quentin’s shoulders drop. This is a safe place. Eliot made it for them, and he can already feel the familiar magic welcoming him in. 

Eliot’s new bower is a mass of velvet, cotton, and furs in the center of the space. For oak posts hold a base tarp of quilted silk off the ground, bound at the corners by elegant knots. The bowl sways gently over a spiraling sigil inscribed on the packed earth underneath. It fits right to the very edges of the wards, delicate spellwork marked with thicker borders that will make the rooms of their home. The fan out around the nest like the petals of a flower. A thick inner circle around the nest is dotted at each of the cardinal directions with a thick cluster of flickering candles. The space is dim, and sacred, the nest thrown into shadow from below. 

_Dark,_ rumble Quentin’s alpha sensibilities approvingly, prowling at the edge of his subconscious. _Good for keeping our mate safe._

Quentin steps closer, careful not to disturb the sigil as he follows Eliot’s scent and the rustle of bedding. 

Eliot is curled in his nest, practically enveloped by his favorite violet throw. Quentin can only see his curls poking out of the top of the blankets and the tell-tale swell of his belly, visible even under the thick comforter. There’s a soft huff, and a snuffle, as Eliot pauses scenting his new nest. 

“Q?” 

“It’s me.” 

Eliot sits up and stretches languorously, his dark gold robe hanging off his shoulders. He scents the air and sneezes once with a cute little head shake before stretching out on his belly, sighing into the decadent bedding.

“Hi cutie. Class go okay?” 

“Fine.” Quentin hardly remembers a minute of it, now. His mind—his heart, his _instincts_ —are here with Eliot. 

“Good.” Eliot beckons Quentin closer, like he’s sharing a secret. He murmurs, eyes bright: “I just drank the most _amazing_ little concoction.” 

Quentin kneels at the edge of the nest, resting his chin on his crossed arms so he and Eliot are eye to eye. “For the spell?” 

Eliot rolls onto his back, looking at Quentin upside down with an indolent smile. “Mhm, and a little something extra, just to make everything more delicious.” He reaches out to boop Quentin on the nose. “Don’t worry. It’s safe for baby.” 

Eliot’s eyes are a little dilated, and his throat is shimmering with oil. Quentin breathes in and his dick takes notice. Eliot smells...god, he smells like _heat_. Quentin whines helplessly, and Eliot grins. He is, after all, doing this to Quentin on purpose. 

“That’s right, alpha. You want to come in?” 

“God, you know I do, El.” 

All benevolence, Eliot lifts up the edge of the comforter. Under his arm is a perfect Quentin-shaped space. “Get up here.” 

Quentin hops up, and pauses. He pulls the collar of his shirt to his nose and breathes in. Other people. Not good. Quentin pulls off his v-neck, and his jeans for good measure. He hops over to the wards, tugging off his shoes and socks haphazardly before shoving the whole bundle out into the dark. 

Just in his boxers, Quentin climbs in the nest. It’s surprisingly stable, the edges strong and taught but a bit of give to the base, meant to shape itself around its occupants. Eliot makes room for him, rolling them over in the space until they’re well enmeshed. He scents him, humming approvingly over Quentin’s bare skin. 

“You smell good,” Eliot declares. “Like us. How do you like our nest?” 

Quentin roots into the softness, Eliot’s weight shifting naturally into his space. Quentin’s eye catches a familiar bit of navy blue, and at the head of the bedding he can see his old jogging hoodie, woven in with one of Eliot’s dressing gowns like a love knot. 

“It’s beautiful.” Quentin can feel his heart rate slowing, primal satisfaction filtering into his scent. Eliot breathes in, and his eyelids flutter closed. “Soft. I love it.” 

“Good.” Eliot exhales, relieved, like there was actually a chance Quentin would be anything but amazed by the fact that Eliot made a place for him in this gorgeous nest. 

“Let me tell you a story,” Eliot says, winding their fingers together. “About my first bower.”

Eliot tells him about April. He tells him about the purple fleece that they’re still lying under, and he stretches up to touch the gift shop crystal his first Omega friend in New York had given him. Then, nose to nose in the nest— _safe here_ , Quentin can see Eliot reminding him, _safe—_ he tells him about Indiana, and the thin second quilt on his mother’s bed. He tells him about his family’s church, and his father’s plans for him. 

“I was supposed to get mated. I was _supposed_ to get pregnant. But I wasn’t supposed to like any of it. It wasn’t supposed to feel good.” Eliot rolls his neck, baring his throat and displaying his mating mark. “It was supposed to be my duty, as a god-fearing Omega.” 

“Fuck that.” Quentin growls, a little, and Eliot laughs. 

“It’s okay, baby.” Eliot’s eyes are liquid gold in the candlelight. He’s—god, he’s glowing, a creature that ought to be approached with a bared throat and worshiped. Eliot pulls Quentin’s hand to his belly. There’s a flutter, and a muted _thump_ , and Quentin feels their pup kick against his palm for the first time like a thunderclap. He gasps, and Eliot’s grin is feral against his jaw as he murmurs: “I’m not a good little god-fearing Omega. I’m a bred bitch and I fucking _love it._ ” 

Quentin kisses the taste of that truth out of Eliot’s mouth. It’s honey sweet and cinnamon hot, a little edge of pain to the pleasure as Eliot bites playfully on his bottom lip. He kind of wants to cry, but he’s so _proud._ Fuck Indiana. Fuck anyone, _anyone_ , who could possibly look at Eliot and see anything _too much_ . Curled up in his nest—Quentin’s mark literally scarred on Eliot’s throat, his pup in Eliot’s belly—Quentin is still starving for him. He’s still grateful for every kiss, every _little alpha_ (it’s just a little mean, a little something that makes Quentin hot and squirmy, needing to please and knowing he has), every second spent with his ear to Eliot’s chest listening to that deep rumbling purr. 

“ _Mate_.” What else can Quentin say? Nothing could mean more than this, putting a name to everything Eliot is to him. 

“Mate,” Eliot murmurs back, stroking his fingers through Quentin’s hair. He squeezes tight at the back of his neck like he would scruff a pup, kisses tender over Quentin’s cheeks. “I chose you. Brought you in my bower to keep.” 

“Gonna guard our den,” Quentin promises. 

“I know.” Eliot kisses him on the mouth again, fucking him a little with his tongue. Quentin submits, helpless, and they spend a little while making out like they did when they were still courting. It feels nice—more than nice—just to be quiet and close, nothing between them but little playful growls and traded kisses. 

“Hey,” Eliot says when they part for more than the time it takes to find each other’s mouths again. They’re both edging toward breathless, and somewhere in the kissing they managed to lose what was left of their clothes. “Remember my last heat, when you knotted me so good it cancelled out my birth control?” 

Um... _yes_. “I thought we figured out that was because of expired spell ingredients.” 

“Nope.” Eliot nips at his bottom lip again, a little warning, and Quentin shivers. “True fucking love, Q. You fucked me hard and deep and I just couldn’t let you go. Kept you right here.” 

“Yeah.” Quentin’s voice squeaks a little as Eliot strokes over his bump with a satisfied purr. He’s just, so lucky, and Eliot is so— _so—_ “Uh, I think your potion is kicking in.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Eliot smooths his big hands down Quentin’s chest and belly, a flush high on his cheeks. “Can you smell how wet I’m getting for you? Thinking about the pretty pup we made together.”

Eliot rolls on top of him, a little, tucking their knees together. It presses Quentin’s thigh against Eliot’s dick and further back and—uh, yeah. He’s wet. Quentin wraps his arms around Eliot’s back—it’s more of a stretch now, with the pup—and lets Eliot at his throat. Being scented feels _so_ good right now.

“Can I bite you again?” Quentin is begging already and he doesn’t care. Eliot doesn’t care either, judging by the grin stretching his parted lips as he starts panting. 

“That is definitely on the menu, baby.” Eliot licks out over the sensitive stretch of Quentin’s scent gland. “As long as it’s followed by me taking that sweet, sweet dick.” 

“That’s going to be a—oh, wow, Eliot—” Quentin whines through Eliot sucking a bruise against his throat. “God, a real hardship.” 

Eliot coos. “I know. Alpha works so hard to take care of us.”

Quentin might actually die of this. Like, his brain cannot possibly be getting enough oxygen, because all his blood is going straight to his dick because Eliot is saying insanely hot, problematic shit and _leaking slick on him._ Eliot is grinding on Quentin’s thigh, eyelids fluttering as he rubs against his own slick and presses Quentin’s cock against his belly. Quentin feels like— _Jesus_ —like a fucking caveman, ready to pin and mount and _fuck_ , and it’s all Eliot. Eliot pulls it out of him, this soft, feral, _animal_ part of himself that Quentin buried under hoodies and books and shame. 

Quentin is a _nurturer,_ and he’s ready to give his mate—his mate carrying _their pup_ —anything he needs. 

As if on cue, a bell chimes, and all the candles flare around them. “Is that—” 

Eliot shudders and nods. The moon is passing the meridian, at its highest point in the sky. Quentin can see it, like a bowl full of cream veiled by the golden wards. 

“S’time,” Eliot declares, curls falling over his brow as he hefts himself onto hands and knees. “Want it. Now.” 

Quentin’s heart rate picks up. His instincts don’t know this isn’t a heat. His focus is sharpening down to one task. “How do you want me?” 

Eliot laughs. “Just do what feels natural.” 

And then he bares his throat. Quentin knows what he needs to do. He curls up to a sit, weaving his fingers into Eliot’s gorgeous hair and pulls his head back so Quentin can get his teeth in Eliot’s throat where they belong. He snuffles, and licks, and when he finds that perfect spot—the sweet little ridge of scar under his teeth—Quentin bites down hard.

Eliot comes. Quentin can—can _smell_ it. He can feel it rippling up Eliot’s spine as he goes tense and lax, moan draining out of him like the come he just spilled on Quentin’s thigh. Good. 

“Baby,” Eliot gasps, as Quentin’s jaw locks. “ _Yes_. You fucking claimed me. Put our pup in me.”

Quentin is so hard. His cock is dribbling white, knot already threatening to swell. He needs to be on top of Eliot. Needs to be fucking him. He lets Eliot’s throat go, lapping over the dotting blood. Pretty. A pretty mark, fresh and red like Eliot deserves. 

Eliot whines again, and Quentin tugs his brain back to the urgent task at hand. He scrambles up behind Eliot, tugging him into place with firm hands on his hips. Quentin reaches down to stroke Eliot’s heavy belly as he admires the sweet mess waiting for him. Eliot is so wet it’s dripping down his balls. Quentin rubs his cock in it, smearing himself slick and savoring Eliot’s anticipatory breath every time the head of his dick catches on his hole. 

_Yesss_ , rumbles Quentin’s hindbrain. _Omega presents for us. Full of pups and still wanting our knot. Protect. Provide. Mate._

Eliot yelps sharply as he’s mounted, body giving around Quentin’s cock like it was made to. He takes all of him in one smooth thrust, and Quentin purrs with it, hungry and proud. He doesn’t waste time, fucking into his mate hard and fast. Eliot doesn’t need time to adjust. He needs a knot. He _wants_ a knot, and not for the spell. Eliot explained everything ahead of time, the whole gorgeous web of circumstantial theory, and there’s no medieval _reproductive_ requirement to the spell (“It helps,” Eliot admits, biting his bottom lip. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t help.”). They’re making love in the middle of a spell matrix, and Eliot’s pleasure is the battery. Every moan, every shudder, every slow drag of Quentin’s cock against Eliot’s hypersensitive nerve endings is fueling the magic, and this is the position Eliot chose (“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Eliot continues. “Maybe, I just really fucking _love_ getting mounted.”). This is the way Quentin can give his mate the most pleasure. 

The fact that he also gets to come is, like, incidental at best, and Quentin is _fucked up_ levels of horny about that. (“Hm….I’m just going to file that little tidbit away for a later date, puppy.”) 

It’s the most natural thing in the world, fucking Eliot, thinking about how to make him feel good. Feel great. Feel _wild_ with need and know that his mate is going to provide. Quentin’s waited his whole life to be this intimate with someone, to know by the shape of Eliot’s breath or the pitch of his grunts whether he needs to go harder or slower or reach down to squeeze Eliot’s cock where it’s hidden under his rounded stomach.

“Right there, Q,” Eliot demands, hands wound tight in the bedding as he tilts his hips up into Quentin’s thrusts, the force rocking him forward and back in a punishing rhythm. “Shit, I can feel it. Almost there.” 

Quentin can feel it too. Tension thrumming in the air like a plucked bow string. There’s magic flowing through Eliot along with the need and pleasure. When he comes—when they come—something is going to happen. Quentin thrusts in hard, and obviously hits something sensitive, because Eliot squeaks and then laughs. 

“ _Jesus_ , fuck.” His smile is brilliant, his curls dripping sweat onto his brow. Eliot looks _drunk_ , just absolutely blissed out. “God, baby, I love you. Love that little cock fucking me so good.” 

Blood pounds in Quentin’s ears as he slows to a deep, steady grind, giving everything he has to push Eliot to the edge. “Love you,” he manages, words caught behind his teeth and sheer primal need to knot. Eliot is so wet, his body squeezing Quentin’s dick with squelching suction. It’s messy, and a little gross, like sex is fucking supposed to be. Quentin wants to lick the sweat off the small of Eliot’s back. He wants to shove his face between his thighs and just smear himself in slick and come. He wants everything, all the time, but first priority at the moment is getting his swelling knot where it belongs. Quentin presses his thumbs into the tight muscles of Eliot’s lower back, pushing him further into his arch. Eliot growls and rocks back, and at the perfect angle Quentin grinds in in _in_ , until he’s watching Eliot’s wet, fuck reddened body take his knot. 

“Fuck— _fuck_ , I’m coming—” 

Eliot hisses through climax, inner muscles _rippling_ over Quentin’s knot so tight it knocks the breath out of him. Eliot mewls, and pants—ah ah _ah—_ loud and shameless. Like he should. Quentin comes silently, words stolen by pleasure as he pumps his mate full, sealed inside on his knot. He nearly collapses against Eliot’s back, only barely keeping his full weight off of his pregnant mate. He pets Eliot’s cock and finds it wet, come splashed against his belly and dripping onto the bed. Good. 

“Shit.” Eliot laughs again, breathless, the rumble doing crazy things to Quentin’s knot. “That was one for the history books, Q.” 

Quentin can only nod against Eliot’s sweaty back. “Uh huh.” 

He lets himself be gross and primal for a few minutes, petting Eliot all over and grinding his knot until Eliot comes a third time, then Quentin rolls them both carefully onto their sides. Eliot moans again, half from the new pressure of Quentin's knot on his rim and half from the relief to his back. He cups his bump with his palm and sighs, pressing his hips back into Quentin’s where they’re still tied. 

“You okay?” Quentin asks, trying to ease the tight muscles around Eliot’s hips with the press of his thumbs. Eliot shudders into the touch, relaxing further still. 

“Trust me, I’m feeling incredible.” Eliot hums happily when Quentin kisses between his shoulder blades. “Nothing the strategic application of a hot rice bag won’t fix in the morning. Or, you know, giving birth, down the line.”

Quentin laughs. He fits his arm around Eliot’s middle and presses his forehead to his upper back, breathing him in. He feels like he just ran a marathon, but he’s wide awake, anticipation keeping him on edge. 

“How will you know if it worked?”

“Shh,” Eliot murmurs. “Listen.” 

After a moment's pause, Quentin can hear it. It’s a deep, unsteady rumble, like the creaking of ship timbers or ice cracking over a frozen lake. Squinting, he can see threads shooting across the wards one at a time, weaving soft off-white over the gold until they begin to dim the glow. Threads—magic, Quentin realizes, something deeper and more solid than he’s ever seen—trace over the spiraling lines inscribed on the floor and start to build upward towards the ceiling coming into being at the same time. Shapes start to draw themselves in midair, strange and abstract until Quentin sees furniture, and windows, and-and _crown molding_. There’s magic threading through the nest, too, embroidering itself thickly along the edges of the quilted silk and stringing up into a canopy over their heads. 

“This is good.” Eliot winds their fingers together and pulls Quentin’s knuckles to his lips. “This is what’s supposed to happen. By the time the moon sets, we’ll be home.” 

Quentin can’t tear his eyes away from his mate, from the miraculous magic swirling around them. 

“You’re amazing.” 

Eliot smiles, a little heat flush still lingering on his cheeks. “I know.” 

Eliot falls asleep in his arms, but Quentin stays awake all night, watching their den weave itself into being.


End file.
